


Surviving

by All_Our_Sweetest_Hours



Series: The Wolves Will Come Again [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 08:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19373263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_Our_Sweetest_Hours/pseuds/All_Our_Sweetest_Hours
Summary: Sansa is learning that returning to Winterfell is only the first step towards coming home





	Surviving

**Author's Note:**

> -Canon Divergence from Season Six  
> -Tags refer to the series as a whole  
> -There are a couple more parts to the series currently in progress

The view from the battlements is familiar but the feeling that they give her is not. Gone is childlike apathy and complacency at the sheer marvel of the North. As she has grown, far away and close to home, so has her appreciation for the cold. 

“We need to trust each other,” Jon tells her. “We have so many enemies now.” 

She is tempted to ignore him. She is tempted to stick out her tongue as she did when she was a child and try to catch snowflakes upon it. There is a memory she has of her father; standing next to her in this very same spot and in her memory he is as tall as a tree and as broad as a mountain. He is laughing, his eyes light with joy that he reserves for his family. After his death, she will hear him called dull, dead eyed, solemn, blank---she will learn that her father had two faces and she will learn that she was privileged to see the best of them. 

Sansa has never excelled at knowing who to trust. She trusted Joffrey and ended up a Lannister. She trusted Baelish and ended up a Bolton. 

Whose bed will trusting Jon lead her to? 

She is not as cold as she might like to be or as hard as she tries to be. She heard them speak of creatures while she was in the South that could retreat inside their own shell when under threat. The weight of her own shell is heavy on her back yet it is still too fragile; a useless and heavy burden that she carries just for the sake of it. 

She wants to believe that she is not alone. 

She wants to push Jon away until he leaves her alone. 

She wants...

But Jon is her family. They share history and blood. Both born of Ned Stark, both raised in snow. However far the distance between the thread that binds them, they know each other better than anybody else there.

He kisses her forehead. He is not as tall as a tree and as broad as a mountain but neither would her father be if he was still here. Jon looks at her like he cares for her. He looks at her like he remembers what family is. 

She hopes... 

...and it frightens her.

The Gods have never been kind to Sansa when it comes to hope. They give it to her but only for a price and with each bargain struck, the cost becomes more painful. It is her punishment for hoping too much as a child and wasting wishes on shallow, stupid things. Lannisters are not the only ones who have to pay their debts and what a cruel debtor fate can be. 

She remembers a sick, twisted pleasure in Joffrey’s eyes the day he smashed Sansa’s hope to pieces. “They swapped his head with that of his direwolf--" he had told her, spiteful and wicked. "--and paraded him through the Twins.”

Sansa knew then that her own debt had come due and that was the same day that she learned that hoping was never worth the cost.

 

...

 

She once was pampered by the North; adored and admired for her beauty and sweet nature. By the time she came home, she had been left out in the sun for too long---a ruined princess withered, wed and old before her time. 

They crown Jon the King in the North for winning a battle that was lost until Sansa managed to convince Petyr to intervene. She surprises herself by not really caring. What is the smallness of wounded pride when she remembers how Jon beat Ramsey into the dirt with nothing but a bare fist?

But they call him the White Wolf who avenged the Red Wedding and the praise reminds her of Robb. It reminds her of poisoned honey poured into her ear by Cersei Lannister; _He won’t trade for you because you are just a girl and girls are not important._

“King in the North, King in the North,” they shout.

Did Robb look as afraid as Jon did when they crowned him? It wasn’t that long ago that she reunited with Jon but the memory stays ever so clear. He smelt of leather and smoke and his arms felt like a heavy weight across her back. His cheek was cold with snow but his neck was warm. 

The most complete memory that she has of Jon Snow is the day she found him again; the fear of being turned away, the fear of her own disregard towards him being visited back upon her. She would have deserved it too but she ran towards him anyway and he opened up his arms despite everything.

Sometimes it is not hope that torments her but bitterness; the bitter deconstruction of chance. What if?

It’s hard to imagine Jon and Robb alike. Robb was always impulsive and brash and bold. Quick to smile, skilled with a joke...all the things that Jon is not but Robb is gone. Her Father is gone. Jon is her guardian now, her Lord, her _King_.

That only scares her sometimes.

Her gaze lands upon Petyr Baelish and he is still and quiet and smug. She knows him better though. His stillness hides a whirring mind making up devious plans by the second.

Jon is a threat to him now, to him and his desires for the throne, because with victory and Winterfell and the North, Jon has taken ownership of Sansa as well.  


She can’t quite figure out the intricacies behind Petyr’s gaze but perhaps he means to say, _See, I told you so._  


 

...

 

“Will you listen to me by chance?”

Sansa’s voice is already hoarse. Her frustration is already thoroughly stoked. Gods only know what the servants think of them. There are already rumours of discontent between the last two Starks.

Jon shakes his head. To him it is simple. “We’ve not long won a war, buried our men, Sansa. Now is not the time for celebrating. A feast is too grand, too frivolous.”  


He is still unpractised in the way of kingship because Sansa knows that she is supposed to take his word as law; swoon and pamper him for his astounding Kingly vision and yet Jon never enforces his rule over her.  


“Oh, speak plainly, Jon and say what you mean. You think that _I_ am frivolous.”  


“That’s not what I said--,” he starts but she cuts him off. By right he could punish her, a more temperamental King might have her hanged or beaten, but Sansa finds it difficult to practice her courtesies with Jon. Regardless, she waits for a reprimand that never comes so Sansa does what anyone would do upon seeing the skyline of freedom, she pushes forward.  


“Do you think I want to attend a feast, Jon? That I long for a night of being surrounded by loud, drunken men in the same hall I was held captive in not even a year ago?”  


There is a look that comes over Jon’s face whenever she refers to the life she lived before they found each other again. Soft and violent, anger and sadness; if she ever told him more, if he ever knew it all...  


If she could ever find the words never mind the courage to speak them.  


Her bastard husband had too many words. If his legacy endures it will be as a man who talked too much and could not prove his word, Sansa will make sure of that.  


But Jon has never been one for words and when he does speak them, he tends to their Lord Father’s preferences for blunt speak and directness. After so long immersed in lies, Sansa has come to appreciate such honesty more than she thought she ever would.  


Her fire leaves her a little; whether it by way of sore memories or the awareness that her words to him serve as both cruel and manipulative. She is sometimes unaware of why she needles his protectiveness towards her. Perhaps it is to get what she wants or due to want of how it makes her feel.  


He vowed to keep her safe. She is learning to believe him.  


“You are a better King than most expected,” she says. “and you were raised in the same court I was. The alliances between the Northern houses are still unsteady. Bad blood still prevails. You know a feast would not only motivate your men but will allow them to soothe old quarrels and temper their egos under the guise of drunken revelry. It is worth the cost. Please don’t dismiss it simply because it is my idea.”  


Half the time he drives her mad with his stubbornness, the other half with his honour, but she lives for the small pleasures of such a look on his face as he searches for words that will not enrage her further.  


“You think me that petty?” He asks and perhaps she has pushed his temper too far.  


Sansa sighs. “I think we are both learning to trust each other and that I have less evidence of making wise decisions than you. However, in this case, I know I’m right.”  


Her words soothe like a balm. He laughs. “Just in this case?”  


She smiles. Easy enough.  


“Fine, then. Have your feast,” he says, lightly. “But you plan it, you prepare for it and if bloodshed occurs, by their hand or my own, you take responsibility for it.”  


It should irk her, to be given orders by a man raised as her bastard brother. It would have in the past. It would still, where it any other man but Jon gives his orders like no other ruler she has known.  


That Sansa feels she can openly disagree with him, and proceeds to do so more often than one would find befitting, is baffling even to herself.  


_You have the greater claim,_ Littlefinger had told her after the crown secured on Jon. _If you press it, I will support you as the trueborn daughter of Ned Stark. I know there are others in the North who would too._  


I will consider it, she had said.  


She hadn’t felt the need to yet.  


 

...

 

As unappealing as the feast may be, the task of planning it proves a divine escape from Sansa’s more painful recollections. It feels like the final scourge of the stripping of a Bolton-owned Winterfell. She sacks her memories with banners and linens bearing direwolves and winter snow. She stands in the halls of her ancestors-- the same halls where Ramsay Bolton had promised that he would lay her across a table and let all of his men take their fill where it not for his father’s command to cease tormenting her—and for the briefest of moments she is convinced that she is finally home.  


“I’ve sourced the best food and ale that we can afford,” she tells Jon when she visits his office one evening. “--and the ravens went out yesterday morning.” Her pride borders on smugness, she can hear it in her own voice but it hardly matters anyway for Jon is too busy scratching away at a piece of parchment.  


“Very good,” he says when Sansa presses further for his praise. What she has managed to accomplish in short time deserves some congratulation at least. In fact, with the feast she has managed to create with such little time and even littler resources, she would be happy enough to host a king should she have no other choice.  


“That’s it?” she asks, her voice holding a dangerous edge.  


He gives her an idiot’s smile. His mouth drops slightly when Sansa doesn’t return it.  


“What would you like me to say?” he asks slowly. What a blessing that she is only his sister and not a foreign ruler or diplomat because he would surely make a show of himself to be gawping and flustered as he is now.  


“Well, if I have to tell you then it’s not even worth it.” She says haughtily.  


Jon blinks slowly and his stare is as dumbstruck as his face. “I really do think it’s very good, Sansa. Well done.”  


By the gods could Sansa shake him sometimes. With a shout of rage, she throws up her hands and leaves him to stare stupidly at his papers and think about how he has offended her.

 

...

 

It is said that a hall filled with song, a table filled with food and a cup filled with ale is all that the North needs to celebrate. She watches as Petyr’s whores work the room; taking Northern men back to their beds and their secrets back to their master. 

Jon, for all his misgivings, seems to be enjoying himself well enough, accepting another cup from his taster with an easy laugh at one of Tormund’s jokes. Wildlings and Northerners eat and sing and drink under one roof with only two fights broken apart. Sansa finds herself a little breathless at the impact. 

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, his eyes glazed and worried. She would have thought him too in his cups to notice how uneasy she feels. It is the noise that bothers her more than the men. How damaged she must be for so much fear to be inspired by laughter. Sometimes, she wants to claw at her own eyes and ears to make the memories stop but she knows she could never quite scratch deep enough to do it. 

Tormund is eyeing her now, his gaze more intense and indecipherable than Jon’s. “Do the hounds need to be fed?” he asks her, his voice low. 

Sansa sips her wine. “The hounds are ever hungry, Tormund, but overfeeding them makes them grow fat.” 

“And fat hounds are good for nothing,” Tormund says thoughtfully before laughing boisterously and returning his attention to the festivities. 

“I’m alright,” she whispers to Jon though she is thrown when his gaze moves past her and his concern becomes a glower. 

“The Lady of Winterfell has outdone herself.” 

Sansa dips her head. “Lord Baelish.” 

She nudges Jon who sullenly repeats her greeting. His knuckles are as white as Ghost around his cup. She could chide him later for being petulant and inhospitable to their guests, especially one to whom they owe their recent victory to, but Jon’s uncompromising hostility towards Petyr is refreshing sometimes. 

Petyr gestures around the room. “A resounding success. I dare say better than anyone had expected. Even my own expectations were exceeded considering how little you had to work with.” 

Sansa wonders if Jon recognises the slight against him. It’s hard to tell particularly what has soured Jon’s mood since he has made it perfectly clear that he has no time for Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger obviously thinks Jon a fool to be so brazen in implying that he is unnecessarily frugal. 

Sansa finds her own ire uncharacteristic at the unfairness of the accusation. Usually she wouldn’t be so quick to anger but they are a Kingdom recovering from war. Jon is a king who puts his people first. 

“Thank you for your kind words, Lord Baelish,” she says more graciously than she feels. “But I am fortunate that my king allowed me the freedom and finances to see my vision met. I only hope that it is not too grand, considering all the North has lost.” 

There is a warning in her words should Petyr choose to heed it but he only smiles smugly. “It is not too grand at all.” He offers her his hand. “If I may be so honoured with a dance?” 

He knows she cannot refuse him and the fact that Jon remains quiet, showing his dislike only through gritted teeth is proof enough that Jon knows it too. The Vale is still too valuable an ally and too strong for a wounded North to turn them into enemies. 

She discreetly pats Jon’s hand before she takes Petyr’s, focusing on the sound that her heels make on the stone to keep from flinching as Petyr winds an arm around her waist. In fairness, it is not the man in particular that disturbs her but Sansa doesn’t like being touched. 

Petyr spends some time trying to soften her; complimenting her dancing skills and dress made by her own hand. If he thinks Sansa so easily buttered up he is wrong. Her whole childhood was lived with praise over her pretty stitches or lovely manners and what good did it do her in the end? The softest, sweetest parts of her only yielded more easily under a blade. 

It is the first time that Sansa wonders if Petyr ever really understood her. He has made a good show of it, whispering the prettiest promises about how he could make her his queen, how they could rule the seven kingdoms side by side and if Sansa was still twelve years old, she might find his words appealing but he forgets that Sansa's dreams ruined her, creating a pit that she has only just begun to climb out of. 

Though perhaps he knows her well enough to know that she will not be easily struck by any poison he aims to whisper tonight for he keeps his pleasantries trite enough; requesting only that she join him on a walk through the Godswood in the upcoming week. 

“I shall,” she says. For now it is better to play his little games and give him enough attention that he thinks he might still win her so both she and Jon do not end up on his list of obstacles in way of his ambition. What is a walk when Sansa has stilled her own cries of fear and pain under threat of being further brutalised?

“There are many fine men here,” Petyr says on a spin. “Your King certainly has a good selection for his dear sister.” 

Sansa’s mouth feels suddenly dry and once again she is reminded of how dangerous it is to underestimate how much Littlefinger sees. She knows how courts work; how kings rule...she knows that even better than Jon but it is the discussion that they haven’t had yet because Sansa isn’t ready to feel so afraid should she not like what Jon has to say about it. 

Of course Petyr notices. The only question is whether her fear is obvious or if he is trying to confirm his own suspicion by her reaction? 

She smiles and it isn’t good enough. He can see right through her. A blind fool could at this moment. 

“Sweet Sansa,” he says. “Just remember, my dear. Whatever the King decrees or offers his noble Lords as part bargain, there is always an escape for you if you wish it.” 

Sansa wishes she had the courage to laugh in his face and remind him that he was the last man who sold her as a part bargain bride to the vilest brute to ever set foot upon the earth but her fear is too deep. It makes her treacherous and she finds herself, in the smallest part, relieved that he offers an escape to her. She knows what he can do. She knows that he will be able to save her should she need it. She knows that he will if she asks. 

“Thank you,” she says, genuinely, gripping his arm a little tighter as he leads her back to her seat. Sometimes she can’t help but be reminded of the times when Petyr was safe; the times when he was her hero rescuing her from those who would do her harm. 

“Are you okay?” Jon asks once Petyr has taken his leave. 

Sansa stares at him for a moment, guilt already setting in over her moment of doubt. Her own thoughts confuse her. Poisonous words that she doesn’t wish to be true are beginning to take root. 

She knows that Jon is brave and strong. She knows that he is honourable and just. Petyr always taught her to assume the worst when it considering a person’s motivations but what about the best?

Sansa knows how a monarchy works and a household is run. Jon is her king before he is her brother and his duty towards his people will always come before her interests. 

What would Jon do to protect his people and build a safe kingdom? What would he do to stop a war? What else would he be willing to give when he has already given his life in order to do what is right? 

..and could Sansa blame him while sitting in another man’s castle; at best trapped in a loveless marriage and closing her eyes through the pain of doing her wifely duties?

She swallows hard and Jon shifts in his seat, eyeing the crowd for sight of Petyr before Sansa comes to her sense and calms him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m okay,” she says. “Petyr was surprisingly restrained in his manipulations tonight.” 

Jon’s appears unconvinced by her words and even less so by the mirthless chuckle that accompany them but he settles back into his seat. Sansa tells herself that it doesn’t matter how Jon feels. What passes between her and Petyr Baelish is nobody’s business but her own. 

“He was right about one thing,” Jon says, carefully, attempting a smile to break the heaviness that Sansa has brought with her from her dance. “You really have done well. I didn’t expect the hall to look so wonderful.” 

“Winterfell is wonderful. I never want to leave.” 

Her voice comes dangerously close to cracking but she manages to hide it well enough. Jon nods simply and sighs, taking a deep swig of his ale. 

The pride of the feast has already worn. Sansa feels sick and afraid and tired. If only she could retire to her rooms but that would only lead to more questions and more answers that Sansa isn’t ready to hear yet. 

Her breathing becomes shallower the more she thinks about it; her sight blurring and a steady throb beginning in her ears but it will not do for the Lady of Winterfell to make a fool of herself so she tries to calm her unsettled nerves and reminds herself of how safe she felt when Jon first hugged her, when Jon promised to protect her, when Jon beat Ramsay into the dirt with his bare hands...

A breath tickles her own hand resting on her knee and she hears the softest whine. She drops her hand under the table and searches for fur that she knows to be white as snow and soft as duck feather. Ghost could bite her but she knows he will not. Despite her Lady Mother’s misgivings, no direwolf had ever laid a tooth upon a Stark child. Even Theon had been able to tug at Greywind’s scruff or feed Lady scraps from his own hand. 

Jon's gaze remains forward but his hand seeks hers, fingers slipping between the spaces of her own. Such moments between them are sparse as they try to forget the discord of their past together and still try to build some kinship from it. 

For now, they grasp at fur together, the happy rumblings of a wolf at peace vibrating through them both. Jon is a Stark. Jon is home. Jon is safe. He will protect her and Sansa will not allow Baelish to weave his web between them. Her relationship with Jon will not be so easily uprooted. She will not allow it to be. 

She’ll look for a white rabbit skin tomorrow, she thinks, and make Jon a new collar for his cloak. One with the finest wolf she has ever embroidered. She will find red thread for its eyes and it will serve as her wish that where Jon goes, his wolf will always be with him. 

“You can keep him in your room tonight if it makes you feel better,” Jon offers. 

“Thank you,” Sansa says, because it will. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa spots a man approaching them cautiously and despite her good breeding, she pretends not to notice. She even considers having Brienne intercept him. Courtesies be damned, Sansa is too haunted by memories. Tonight she wants peace and such moments of connection between her and Jon are far too rare to trouble. 

It is Jon who acknowledges him first and it is Jon who he approaches. 

“Your Grace,” 

He is small in frame and slightly unsteady on his feet, though he is not much older than her father would have been at his death and Sansa is shamed by the minute it takes her to remember who he is. 

“Lord Reed,” Jon says, straightening his back in an autonomous show of respect. Sansa shares both his respect and surprise at the sight of the man in front of them. 

Though not inclined to reminiscing, her father had shared many tales of his boyhood adventures with the man before them now. It was Lord Howland Reed who fought beside him when he went to try and rescue her Aunt Lyanna from that brute, Rhaegar Targaryen. 

Jon rises and offers the man his chair. Lord Reed, who is better versed in the technicalities of politics than Jon, refuses his seat and holds up a palm to halt Jon’s fumbling attempts to fetch the man a chair. 

Sansa leans forward. “Forgive me, Lord Reed, but I’m surprised to see you here. Father always spoke about how you were adamant that you would never leave the Neck. That is why we did not send a Raven.” 

“Your father spoke true, Lady Sansa,” Lord Reed says. “--and I would be at my home still if I did not need to speak with the King of an urgent matter.” 

Jon, who has been fidgeting since Lord Reed refused his seat, stills at the man’s words. He looks to Sansa who discreetly shrugs. She cannot think what information Lord Reed could have for the King that would be so urgent. 

“Please, Your Grace. It will not take long.” 

Jon rises quickly, unable to sit and watch a hero, featured in many of their father’s stories, stand before him and beg for a moment of his time. 

“Of course,” he says. He turns to Sansa and bows lightly enough not to trigger a succession debate between the more traditionalist Lords. “I shan’t be long.” 

Sansa knows that Jon is concerned about leaving her unattended where Petyr Baelish still lurks and she is still disturbed by allowing Petyr to unsettle her so. With her nerves frayed, she waits only a short while before beckoning Brienne, who has been standing sentry a short distance from Sansa.

“I wish to retire to my rooms. Will you please let the King know when he returns?”

“Lady Sansa, I ask that you allow me to escort you to your rooms.” Brienne says. 

As loyal and dutiful as her sworn sword may be, Brienne is also not shy about showing her disagreement with her Lady’s decisions or her distrust over those she believes to be unsavoury characters. 

Running her hand through the scruff of Ghost’s neck, Sansa rises and smooths out her skirts. “I have an escort. He’ll keep me safe. Please, Brienne. As your Lady, I instruct you to let the King know that I have taken to my bed and then enjoy yourself with food and wine or anything else you please.” 

Her eyes flicker mischievously to the wildling who watches them both. Lady Brienne’s cheeks redden. 

Brienne rests her palm over her own heart. It is an unconscious action that Sansa has picked up on and proves only that Brienne’s word is true. “I vow to you, Lady Sansa, that I will not touch one drop of wine or indulge in any....foolery, and the second I have informed the King of your whereabouts, I will take up guard outside your door. “ 

What it must take to be so devoted to ones word. Sansa knows how lucky she is to have found Brienne and perhaps Sansa’s encouragement to enjoy herself more is improper with regards to Lady Brienne’s vows and status but Sansa has known too little of happiness and joy in her later years to not want it for the people who have protected her.

With her thanks, she leaves her sworn sword to shade her from prying eyes as she disappears. 

Though there is one set of prying eyes that she can never quite escape from. Petyr catches her eye as she makes haste through the great hall but she manages to look away quickly enough that she can claim she simply did not see him if he questions her over it. 

She hopes Ghost will deter him from following her. Lord Baelish would not be stupid enough to risk encouraging the bite of a direwolf that isn’t under her control.  
Yet Ghost follows easily enough, pushing his snout under her hand and licking at her palm until she giggles. She brushes out his fur as a reward for his kindness, keeping a few tufts that she might be able to weave into Jon’s new collar and when she cries a little for Lady, because she cannot help it, he licks her tears away. 

She leaves him by the fire and takes to her bed, startled a little when he jumps up and settles at her feet. She thinks to shoo him down, for Mother was always so strict on that matter, but his heavy weight is a comfort so she lets him stay. He sends her to sleep with his soft, grumbling snores and chores on her mind of white rabbit fur and red thread.

 

...

 

It is still dark when Sansa is startled from sleep by a disorderly rapping at her door. The room is lit only by a single sconce but it is enough that she can see Ghost sitting by the door, whining pitifully. That he is not growling or snarling provides its own comfort and eases the sickness of fear from being woken so abruptly. 

“Sansa,” she hears from the other side of the door. 

The voice is a painful and distorted whisper and it takes a second for her to realise that it is Jon. He does not sound like himself. Ghost nudges her with his snout, urging her to open the door and she needs no other confirmation that it is Jon behind it. 

“One moment,” she calls as she gathers her robe and hurries to light the rest of the sconces. She thinks to stoke the fire as well but when she hears sniffling and soft sobs from behind the door, panic takes over her. 

What could possibly bring him to her door so upset? What do they have left to lose? 

Arya and Bran, her mind torments, but she will not even consider it until such words are spoken. She fears bringing such horrors to life. 

He rests his head on her shoulder not a moment after she opens the door and Sansa can tell by the smell alone that he is truly in his cups. The last time she had seen him in such a state was when he, Robb and Theon had returned home as three drunken fools, and provoked the ire of her dear mother, before they were even men. Not only had they woken half of Winterfell, but their drunkenness had led to Theon accepting and losing a bet which ended up with him running naked through the castle grounds and mortifying Sansa’s own septor. 

Sansa had been lucky enough to forgo the sight of Theon unclothed, but she had watched Robb and Jon from her window and saw how they laughed so freely and fully while making the guards give chase. 

That unrestrained pleasure is what Jon is missing at this moment. Instead, he carries a weight of sadness as heavy as his head on her shoulder. 

She guides him carefully to the fireplace in fear of them both stumbling. Falling clumsily into the chair, he lets out a pained grunt as she stokes the fire. 

“What is wrong?” she asks, standing before him with her hands on her hips. He reaches out his hand and she allows him to pull her to him and bury his face into the cloth of her robe. Such closeness between them is unusual and though Sansa expects to flinch away, her instinct to comfort him is stronger and she wraps her arms around his shaking shoulders as he encircles her waist in a nearly uncomfortable grip. 

“My sister,” he sneers, his words choked and angry, the address sounding like an insult. “We were only just starting to fix things and now everything is ruined.”  


It is the bitterness in his voice that startles her most. Never before has she seen Jon so desperately angry and she has watched him beat a man half to death. “Ruined? Jon, please, you’re scaring me.” 

Ghost whines beside them, forcing his snout under the arm that rests around Sansa’s waist. Jon releases her to bring his wolf closer to him but the other arm around her tightens.

“He lied, Sansa. Father lied and I shouldn’t be angry with him for it but I am.” For a moment he is the boy from her childhood; a pitiful scolded child forced into admission and shamed for existing. 

Sansa’s instincts are at war with each other. She wants to soothe him and also to shake him into giving her answers.

“Hush,” she says, fingers weaving through his curls, offering the only comfort she can think of. Her mother used to braid her daughters hair when she was nervous or afraid and Sansa had continued that habit with Lady; easing her fears and worries with each brush stroke through fur and while Ghost is not always a willing participant, he will sometimes sit and allow her to brush out his coat. 

Sansa kneels before Jon, breaking his hold on her waist and removing her hands from his hair. She takes his face between her hands. 

“Tell me what is wrong and I will help you.” She says firmly. 

 

...

 

She could use it; the secret he tells her. 

Petyr would advise her to turn it against him and armour it for her own purposes and Sansa is jaded enough that she can see how his revelation would benefit herself. Poor Jon is so confused and shamed by the truth that there would probably be little effort required on her part. He would give up his claim to the North and his claim on Sansa would go with it. No more fear over being married off. Sansa’s hand would be her own. Winterfell would be hers alone. 

Sansa need not ever worry again, need not cry herself to sleep in fear of one day being called to Jon’s office and asked to accept her duty as a daughter of the North. 

_That is the smart thing_ Petyr would say. _That is the thing that will help you to survive._

So what is it that stops her? Has Sansa not wanted to be strong? Has she not wished for the courage to strike others before they strike her?

Jon’s head is in his hands. He does not deserve this. Sansa did not deserve what happened to her either but it happened anyway. 

The power she holds over him now does not feel good though. It is a sickening weight upon her shoulders. Jon has come to her in need and with trust and to betray him feels like an unthinkable crime. Is this not Jon, who looks at Sansa like she has never done anything wrong? Jon, who even entertains her insubordination because he knows that it makes her feel safer? 

What would Winterfell be without Jon Snow but a castle with only Sansa’s memories for company? It makes her heart ache to think of it. The thought of looking beside her and seeing an empty space or a stranger brings a pain that she did not expect. 

To be another dagger in his heart, knowing that he would probably forgive her for it anyway, would hurt her even more. 

So she makes her decision, pulling it from her heart and ignoring that which her head advises. 

She kneels before him once more and grasps his hands until he looks at her. “Listen to me, Jon. Targaryen or Stark---it doesn’t matter.” She tells him. “The only name that matters is yours. You are Jon Snow and that is the name of the bravest and kindest man I know. You took a name that people scorned and looked down upon, even I, and you made it glorious. You made it strong, brave and honourable. Just be who you already are and it will never matter to me, Jon. I promise.”

Where the words come from, she does not know. It is almost as though there is a scribe sitting inside her head and writing them for her. They flow out of her mouth so easily but more surprising is the force behind them. She speaks each word with truth and honour. 

_Fool_ , she hears Petyr say, but she doesn’t feel foolish. Sansa feels like this might be the first right and true choice she has made since the day she stamped her feet at her Father and demanded her very own prince. 

The next voice she hears is her Father’s, as loud and clear as if he had sprung back to life inside her very own head; _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._  


Jon is her pack, now and always, and her pack will survive. She will ensure it. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
